


Doggerel

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Prompt Fic, Retirement, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Home from the war, and safe, but Watson still seeks refuge. Holmes is on the trail. Written for JWP #6 over on Watson's Woes.





	Doggerel

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Tangentially related to [Not Entirely Futile](http://archiveofourown.org/works/872646), but you probably don't need to read that in order to understand this. It might help, though. Written in a complete rush. And absolutely no beta. Be afraid. Be very afraid. I know I am.
> 
> Author's Notes: Written for JWP #6: A character writes poetry (doesn't have to be good poetry). This is...not what I expected to come out of that prompt, but such is JWP.

“Ah, Watson. I thought I might find you awake.” Holmes’ voice was soft, but his eyes were keen, searching. “Do you mind if I join you?”  
  
The question left me torn between amusement and irritation. “It’s your cottage, Holmes.”  
  
“It’s your home, too, for now and for as long as you want it to be,” my friend countered swiftly. “And I don’t wish to intrude.”  
  
I smiled, moved as always by his loyalty. “I should like the company. You are a far better companion than my thoughts just now.” _Than my memories_ , I could have said, but there was no need, not with Holmes. He needed glasses now to read his newspapers and scientific articles, and for close examination of his bees, but he still saw far more than any other man.  
  
“I see you’ve been hard at work,” he commented, gesturing at the paper scattered around my chair. He moved slowly towards his own. His face showed nothing but gentle concern, but just as he could read my actions and mood at a glance, so I could see the joint-pain he refused to acknowledge in every shortened stride, every too-careful movement. I did not have to ask the cause of his wakefulness any more than he needed to ask mine.  
  
“Only if you count wasting paper as work.” I sighed and started to gather the discarded sheets. “These are good for nothing more than starting the morning fire.”  
  
“Hmm,” my companion hummed noncommittally.  
  
I rolled my eyes, long familiar with the conversational gambit, but answered him anyway. “Physician, heal thyself, isn’t that the phrase? And I am a writer, or I was, even if my writing never suited your taste. I should be able to find the words – or at least some words. But I cannot. I cannot now, any more than I could after Maiwand.”  
  
“Why do you think you must – or should?”  
  
Memory struck, swift and overwhelming, as it still did at times. At least this time the recollection was not wholly one of horror. “There was a fellow – one of many I treated. A young officer with a profound case of shell-shock, far worse than the one I suffer from now.” I chuckled, vaguely aware of how bitter it sounded. “He asked me to give my opinion of his poems. He’d recognized me, or my name at least, and wanted the advice of a more experienced writer. As if I had anything to contribute! They were works of genius, Holmes. They – they captured – they were…” Words failed me, overwhelmed by emotion and the cursed stammer that even now plagued me at times. I closed my eyes, swallowed, counted to ten in my head, and tried again. “They –they helped him. He wrote it out, and he recovered. He wasn’t in my hospital by then, but he wrote to me occasionally, telling me how he was getting on. He grew so much better he was eventually pronounced fit for duty again.” I still had that letter, the last one I ever received from him. I tried not to think of why that might be, but deep down, I believed I knew. “I tried doing the same. I even tried writing poetry, but it’s nothing but doggerel. Stupid rhymes, meaning nothing, suitable only for the fire-dogs.”  
  
Holmes sat silent for long minutes after I finished speaking. It was not a judgmental silence, I told myself, but rather a considering one.  
  
“Not all cures work the same way on all men,” he said at last. “Isn’t that true, Watson? Medically speaking?”  
  
“Yes,” I admitted.  
  
“And not all art in the blood is the same.” He paused for a moment. “My mother wrote sonnets.”  
  
I jerked in surprise, and some of my papers fluttered to the floor.  In all our years together, Holmes had rarely spoken of his family, even after I learned of Mycroft’s existence. I had not expected to hear any more about them, particularly not now that Mycroft was gone.  “Did she?” I said rather inanely.  
  
“Superb ones. Her words sang on the page, touched everyone who read them. Not that she shared them with many.” He shook his head. “She laboured over them, but she never aspired to fame, only to satisfaction, when she finally felt the words conveyed everything she meant them to. The work was all.”  
  
“That sounds familiar,” I said without thinking.   
  
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “My mother took as much satisfaction from her poetry as I took from my deductions. Or from my violin. I first turned to that when I realized I could not write as my mother did.”  
  
It took a moment for me to fully realize what he said. “You also wrote poetry?”  
  
Holmes’ singular laugh was quieter now than it had been in our youth, but still held as much sardonic mirth as ever. “No, Watson, I wrote doggerel. Just as you have found, I too learned that poetry was not in my blood. It is not, and never has been, my gift, my refuge.” He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes catching and holding mine. “I found mine in other ways, other forms. You did too, once. I suggest that instead of looking to another’s example for your cure, you try a few doses of your own medicine.”   
  
His words were plain enough, but I still struggled to understand – or perhaps to believe. “You…you think I should try writing up one of your…cases?”   
  
My friend shrugged. “Although I am retired, there is no shortage of past cases to draw from,” he pointed out. “And between my commonplace-books, your old notes – we’d have to send for them from Cox and Co., but I believe it could be managed easily enough – and our own recollections, I expect we could supply enough details for a dozen or more of your stories.”  
  
I have long known of my friend’s generosity, and loyalty, to those he cares for. Never had I had such a blatant example of it as now, when Holmes offered up his entire life’s work as blank paper, raw material for me to use however I might, if only it would help me.  
  
I could not speak for many minutes, emotion clogging my throat and blurring my vision. But I reached out one hand and seized one of Holmes’ in as firm a grip as I dared, given his infirmities and my own. “Thank you,” I managed at last. “I…I… You are probably right, as usual. I think…I think I would like to try.”  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 6, 2017.


End file.
